


The Rabbit's Foot

by Prodigalsan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Grey Harry Potter, Identity Issues, M/M, Manipulative Tom Riddle, Multi, Mystery Elements, Obsessive Tom Riddle, Political Harry Potter, Possessive Tom Riddle, Reluctant Sugar Daddy Harry Potter, Sane Tom Riddle, Simp Tom Riddle, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Spoiled Tom Riddle, Time Travel, Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter), ish?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29779722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prodigalsan/pseuds/Prodigalsan
Summary: Tom knows from the moment his magic pulsed in his left wrist thatthey’re here, and it is only due to his phenomenal self-control that he does not break into a run. Instead, he walks briskly, wild eyes glued to the flashing radar on his arm; on the dot that is drawing closer to the center of the circle,closer to him—His eyes land on a familiar figure standing in front of the orphanage; haloed by the setting sun. Tom Riddle’s mouth dries, and his heart almost leaps out of his chest.“Selwyn?”—Harry Potter, now Harford Selwyn, discovers what happens when you mess with time, and Tom Riddle, upon learning to love, discovers a new fear. (Tomarry Soulmate/Time Travel AU)
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 47
Kudos: 206





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, hi? /waves hands frantically/ uuuuhhh I've never written _anything_ for this pair before, though I've been obsessed with it for years. The Tomarry fandom seems a little intense, is all, and I was just too intimidated to contribute. But this has been plaguing me for _so long_ that I just had to get it out of my system ~~(as well as have an excuse to ignore my other fics HAHAHA)~~. And who doesn't want to read about a simp!Tom, _reaLLY_.
> 
> So uh. Here I am. I come bearing gifts. I hope you all welcome me with open arms~~  
> \--  
>  **Notes:** Canon Divergence, expect there to be alterations. Tom is 14 (and thus not as "cool" or mature as he will be in later years), Harry (as Harford) is 17. Nothing sexual will happen to them just yet, but this is Tom so there will be tension. Please let me know if I still need to put the Underage tag, even for that. This is also _very self-indulgent_ and not beta read. English isn't my first language so there might be mistakes, which I promise to fix... eventually. Lol.

_April 22nd, 1997_

“Professor?” Harry asks, moments after he had already been dismissed after their latest discussion. He rubs his hands nervously down his trousers and glances at the pensieve, thinking. “Do you think… do you think we can find them? The horcruxes?”

“I’m afraid it’s not a matter of can or can’t, my boy,” says Dumbledore, smiling sadly in his direction. The man is sitting at his desk, sombered what they had just learned—or confirmed, in his case—from Horace’s memory. “Tom must be stopped. And you had already destroyed one of his horcruxes. We must find the rest before it’s too late.”

“And then Voldemort will die?”

“He _can_ die, yes. The horcruxes are tethers to this world; once they are all gone, he will become mortal once more.”

“And then.” Harry pauses. “And then I’ll have to kill him? Finish the job?”

Dumbledore takes a moment before nodding. “Yes.”

Harry exhales loudly. His eyes shift, before finally settling on the diary he destroyed in second year; a shell of what it once was: a cursed object. He keeps on staring at it, sitting so innocently on top of Dumbledore’s desk, and frowns. A flash of a young, handsome, kindly Tom Riddle assaults his vision, and he hisses, unaware of the way Dumbledore was staring at _him_ with curious eyes.

“Is there something troubling you, Harry?” Harry’s head jerks up at being addressed, which, at the very least, summons a small smile on the weary headmaster’s face. “You look like your mind’s been running wildly for a while. Come take a rest, and tell this old man what’s on your mind.”

Harry ducks his head, flushing. “I don’t wish to be a bother—”

“Indulge me, Harry,” Dumbledore interjects gently. “What is it?”

Harry sighs and takes a seat, and stumbles a bit doing so. His knees had buckled on the way down, and Harry wonders for a moment why he’s so agitated. The _Felix Felicis_ had long worn off, so the self-assuredness is no longer there. Maybe that’s it. 

No, that isn’t it. Harry _knows_ what’s bothering him, but he doesn’t know if he should… ask.

“You’ll never know if you don’t try, dear boy,” says Dumbledore, smiling when Harry’s eyes widen. 

“Well, I was just wondering,” Harry begins after a few beats of silence. He fidgets with his hands on his lap, swallowing. “I just wonder… if it all could have been different, somehow.”

Dumbledore blinks. “Different?”

“Yeah. I mean.” He pauses, looking at the pensieve. “I mean I saw… all of those memories. I saw glimpses of his past, how he grew up… and I can’t help but thinking that it’s just—”

“Similar to your own?”

Harry jolts. “I’m—”

“Calm, Harry.” Dumbledore’s eyes, which had been dark and somber all night, soften, narrowing just slightly in assessment. “You feel that you and Tom have your similarities. But you have your differences, too: your choices, for one thing, and your ability to love. Tom had never loved anyone, or been loved, as far as I know.”

“But if he had,” Harry ventures slowly. “If Voldemort _had_ learned to love, would he have been different, you think?”

Dumbledore sighs and leans back into his chair, pondering. “Love is a powerful force, Harry. Many die for it, live for it. It is a tool used to wage war, or a reason to end it. I have no doubt that, if Tom had ever been subjected to it, he would have… chosen differently.”

“Just like that?” Harry asks.

Dumbledore hums, his blackened, right hand rubbing at his left wrist in thought. Harry focuses on the movement immediately, because it is not only a tell of what his headmaster is thinking, but a reminder of what lies hidden under his bright, satin robes.

A soulmark.

(Harry glances at his woefully blank wrist and scowls.)

“Did Voldemort have one?” He can’t help but ask. At Dumbledore’s quiet, questioning stare, he adds, “a soulmate. Did he have one? A soulmate?”

He doesn’t know why he wants to know. Surely, a wicked, elitist psychopath like Voldemort, like _Tom Riddle_ , couldn’t have been born with one. They’re precious in the wizarding world, and Hermione once told him that soulmates bring out the best in each other—including magical power. For that reason alone, surely, _surely_ , if Tom had one, he would have tried finding them, would have kept them safe at the very least, and maybe he would have had grown up with love and care like he was meant to have. No orphanage, no fear of death, no magic-hating relatives and cupboards and _being called a freak—_

“He did,” Dumbledore finally answers, and Harry’s heart sinks. He stands up, slowly coming round where Harry is rooted to his seat, unblinking. “I saw it before. In the orphanage. You must not have seen it, my boy, but little Tom had been wearing ill-fitting clothing. I caught a glimpse of the mark—just the top of the little circle, the little hand peeking out the cuff as it cruises clockwise.”

Harry turns when Dumbledore shows him his wrist. The circle’s diameter was tiny—barely three centimeters, and smaller circles fill the hollow spaces inside. A line starts from the center and moves clockwise, steady, like a heartbeat. It resembles a clock, which is why some wizarding folk call it as such.

(But Harry thinks it looks more like a muggle radar, like in those spy films uncle Vernon likes to watch. And it makes more sense to think of it like one, considering how it _really_ works.)

Then Harry swallows when his mind returns to the matter at hand, focusing on that singular shred of information that Harry shouldn’t be so fixated on, but is. “Voldemort had a soulmate.”

“ _Had_ one, yes.” Dumbledore’s eyes meet Harry’s, which had shifted to him, interested and alarmed all at once. “I saw it in class once. He was in his second year. I had them write an essay, and Tom’s inkwell had run out in the middle. He elected to use his left hand to open a new one, and I saw.”

“What did you see?” Harry asks.

Dumbledore hesitates. “It was white. Faded. Unmoving. It seemed that Tom’s soulmate had passed away before they could meet.”

Harry feels bile rise up his throat. _Oh, Tom_. No one deserves that. Harry’s hand instinctively reaches for his own blank wrist, and he morbidly wonders if Tom had felt it. His soulmate dying.

(Harry thinks Tom might have been devastated, if he knew.)

Harry jumps slightly when Dumbledore places his hand on Harry’s shoulder, which the boy realizes is shaking. He stares up at Dumbledore, whose eyes were soft and twinkling, a small smile on his face.

“We can pity him all we want, Harry,” says Dumbledore. “But it does not change what we must do.”

“Of course,” Harry says after a few moments, nodding. He looks down at his wrist, _blank_ , and sighs. “I just wish it was different.”

Is he talking about Tom, or his wrist? Who knows?

Apparently, Dumbledore knows. “Sometimes being markless is a blessing, Harry. I will be the first to tell you that.”

Harry swallows. “Professor—”

“It is late, Harry. We must reflect on what has come to light, and prepare.”

“All right.”

Harry stands up, and when Dumbledore offers him a sweet, he moves to decline politely, as always. But this time, he stares at the tin thoughtfully, and takes out a sour, but sweet candy to pop in his mouth.

Dumbledore blinks once. Then he smiles. Harry nods jerkily and practically runs out of the office.

He pinches the skin of his blank wrist, frowning thoughtfully.

* * *

_August 5th, 1941_

The leaves crunch under Tom’s foot, useless and weak.

Summer used to be one of the more tolerable parts of the year for Tom, as most of the children were encouraged to go outside and play. This, for Tom, meant privacy and solitude—two of his favorite things that are, woefully, lacking in his dismal “home,” even now. The orphanage lacks many things, Tom thinks sullenly as he tries to ignore his rumbling belly, but that is how it is.

He grits his teeth, staring hatefully at the _dying, decrepit_ building behind him. How it could have survived the air raids, when everything else surrounding them had been blasted to smithereens, Tom isn’t sure. The other children’s memories hadn’t been very forthcoming, and Tom is disgusted to know that the younger kids find the loud noises and flashing lights _exciting_.

Tom’s hand trembles as memories of falling bombs and grey skies assault him. Fools. _Fools all of them_. They will all die, like the inferior worms they are, but Tom will survive. Like the orphanage behind him, standing proudly among the wreckage of this insane muggle war, Tom will stand proudly over the corpses of his enemies. Respected. Revered.

_But he cannot do that if he is stuck here!_

What if there is another raid? What if the orphanage doesn’t survive this time? _What if Tom dies_?

 _‘I won’t die,’_ Tom promises to himself vehemently, even as the rocks and sticks around him twitch and shake in fear. _‘I won’t die. Never, ever, ever, ever,_ ever _!’_

Tom hears glass shatter behind him, and he turns to see a hole in the middle of the window on the second floor. He looks down at his feet, at the small rocks that are no longer trembling. He scoffs and shrugs, uncaring, even as people investigate the noise; Mrs. Cole loudly demanding who it was that threw the rock at the window. Tom’s lip curls as he walks away, unwilling to be dragged into the farce of _whatever this is_.

Fools. _Idiots_. Useless waste of space, _all of them_.

And yet, Tom is here, living among them, like a polished diamond carelessly thrown in a pit of soil and coal. And all because _what_ ? Hogwarts does not allow students to stay in the summer? Even in the middle of a fucking war? Tom is not the only wizard living amongst the muggles. Although he detests having to compare himself to pitiful muggleborns, he knows that they are also affected by the war, and Hogwarts could have welcomed and protected them all. _Should have_.

But no, they are all thrown to die out here, like disease-ridden rats. But Tom is not a _rat_. He is a snake, a _descendant of Slytherin_ , and when he finds that blasted Chamber, he’s going to show all of them his true power! Just they wait and see.

Until then, no one cares. No one will come for Tom. Just the Germans and their bombs.

 _‘No one will come,’_ Tom repeats in his head, sitting on a bench that would have fallen apart in his younger years, if he had not repaired it with his magic. It had been one of his rare, non-destructive displays of magic, he thinks, but who cares about that? A bench is meant to be sat on, and it cannot serve its purpose if it’s _falling apart_. Repairing it had been common sense.

It had also been the first time he felt _it_ pulsing wildly. 

Tom sits on the bench. He looks over his shoulder to make sure none of the dirty muggle children are spying on him, and unbuttons the cuff on his left wrist. His eyes gleam as he stares at his soulmark: a series of circles, growing smaller and smaller in the center, and a hand that flashes and moves steadily, or wildly, depending on his heartbeat.

Right now it is pulsing strongly, though not too much. When Tom first discovered it, and its connection to his heartbeat, he had learned quickly how to mask his emotions—how to fool everyone around him (even himself). No one had ever noticed the mark, which he later learned is because it is _magical_ , and therefore undeserving eyes cannot ever see it. He still hides it though, because one cannot be sure.

This is his. His, his, _his_. And so is the person whose mark and magic pulses in tandem with Tom’s.

 _His soulmate_.

At first, Tom had dismissed it. He had thought it foolish. Connections, friendship, _love_? All sentimental hogwash. Utterly unnecessary, and a fatal weakness. He had seen how it turns people into starry-eyed idiots, how it blinds their judgment, _cements their demise_. Tom had wanted nothing to do with pathetic emotions like that, for he knows it will only drag him down.

But then, in second year, Tom met _him_. And everything had changed.

Tom shakes his head, growling angrily when he feels his cheeks heating. _This isn’t fair_. Tom is meant for great things. He shouldn’t be tied down to something so—so _plebeian_. Sentiment is for fools, and Tom is no fool.

So why does Tom stare longingly at his pulsing mark—tangible proof of his _living_ , beating heart? Why does he look forward to meeting this soulmate of his? 

And why does he pray for it to be _him_?

 _‘Fool,’_ he admonishes himself, even as his vision is filled with memories of bright, red-lipped smiles and kind, _green, green eyes_. He buries his warm face in his hands, muffling his snarl. _‘You’re better than this.’_

Yes, he is. He’s better than this, wallowing in foolish dreams and desires. But he can’t help but _imagine_ , and he blames himself for being so weak. One day, he hopes to conquer this human, _mortal_ facet of himself, but maybe, for now, he can lose himself in the possibility of _what if_.

Then his wrist pulses. _Hard_. Tom jerks back and stares at it. Stares, and stares, and _stares_ , until he can feel his eyes practically bulging out of his head. He stands slowly, mouth agape, as a tiny, tell-taling _dot_ appears on the left hemisphere of the circle, _very, very close_ to the center.

Tom knows what that means. He knows, from the moment his magic pulsed in his left wrist, what is about to take place. He turns around; eyes searching, and heart beating wildly in his chest and on his wrist. A bead of sweat travels down his temple, and he swallows.

They’re here. His person. _They’re finally here_.

( _Take me away, save me, please!)_

It is only due to years of conditioning and phenomenal self-control that Tom does not break into a run. No, running is for lovesick idiots and Hufflepuffs. Tom is a Slytherin—a true one, as the blood of his House’s founder runs through his veins—and therefore, he should act as such, soulmate or no. Instead, he walks briskly, wild eyes glued to the flashing radar on his arm—for _that_ is what it is, not a fucking clock, _stupid idiots_ —and on the dot that is drawing closer to the center of the circle, _closer to him_. Tom licks his lips as he makes a turn, vaguely aware that his soulmark is leading him to the front of the orphanage. 

When the dot vanishes in the center, Tom stops. The line pulses wildly, his chest in pain. With mild trepidation, he turns his head.

And his eyes land on a very familiar figure. Tom would know, for that body, that face, _those eyes_ , haunt him in his sleep every day for almost two years, and Tom’s chest hurts at the sight of _him_ , haloed like a god by the setting sun.

Tom Riddle doesn’t wax poetic, but just this once… no, _just for this person_ , he will. His mouth dries, and his heart almost leaps out of his chest as he breathes out a name: “ _Selwyn_.”

Harford Selwyn, the first to acknowledge him, to care for him, _is his soulmate_. Tom Riddle really is meant for great things, after all.

* * *

The leaves crunch under his feet, but he pays them no mind. The grey, decrepit building provides far better sensory stimulation, and not because it was one of the few lucky buildings to have survived an onslaught of terror and destruction. Bright, green eyes survey the surroundings, and they are all at once bright and tired.

This orphanage is the beginning, the culmination of _everything_ Harry—no, _Harford_ has braced himself for. Will it be the marker of a brighter, better world? Or is it an omen for the inevitable, impending demise?

It will all be up to Harford, it seems. And he resolutely chooses the former.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his slightly sharper noise. How had it come to this, he wonders not for the first time. Two years ago, he was marching to his death at the hands of his greatest enemy. Now, he is marching once again to face the same person—no, _not the same person_ . Not yet. And he will never be _him_ , if Harford has anything to say about it.

Still. What fucking _bad luck_. 

_‘Perhaps it was expired,’_ Harford thinks ruefully. _‘The Felix Felicis.’_

Along with the Resurrection Stone, Harford found a vial of molten gold potion inside the snitch, which he, as Harry Potter, knew very intimately to be luck potion. Dumbledore must have put it there, just in case, and Harry had downed it greedily, knowing that he needed _all the luck he could get_ , considering what was to come. 

But perhaps that had been damning; after all, _why would a dead person need luck_ ? He isn’t sure, and he wants to strangle himself for being such an idiot, for _of course a potion would have an expiry date, you twat!_ And what was that stint with the overpowered _Tempus Charm_? How on _earth_ had that been a good idea?

(Harford doesn’t think that the expired potion probably meant Dumbledore had expected him to finish a lot earlier than he did. He also doesn’t think that it’s _strange_ for Dumbledore to have given him a potion that isn’t charmed with a stasis, for is that not such a rookie mistake?)

Harford shakes his head and sighs. No matter. It’s no use bemoaning the past, as it will not change things. He should know; he spent the first month of his arrival here in 1939 lashing out, denying _everything_ , and hoping against hope that when he wakes, he will be in the Forbidden Forest. But Harford had woken up every day to the same, elegant ceiling, to rabbits running in beautifully-woven tapestries, and to wide-eyed, clean house elves asking _how is master be doing this morning?_

It became clear right away that Harry— _Harford_ is stuck here. And he might as well make the best of it. And it was, at first, decided that he can do just that by _killing Tom Riddle_. Nipping the issue at the bud, before it can bloom into something dangerous and irreversible. That had been the idea, _the plan_.

But then Harford saw him in Hogwarts, and his heart had _melted_.

The Voldemort he faced in the Forbidden Forest was cruel, unfeeling, _inhuman_. The boy Harford met in Hogwarts was lonely, bitter, and _starved_. Harry’s resolve had disappeared right away, and his mission had changed.

_“I just wonder… if it all could have been different, somehow.”_

Harford recalls, and he still wonders. He thinks he can risk it, just to find out.

Then, fortuitously, _luckily_ , his soulmark—and didn’t having _that_ in this life give Harford whiplash—pulsed on his seventeenth birthday, as it is meant to for all wizards and witches, almost a week ago. Harford had been busy with… family matters, and thus could not set aside time for it. But it had been _very insistent_ today, so he relented finally. And now he is here.

He is Tom Riddle’s soulmate. Tom Riddle is _his_ soulmate. This person, whose frail soul and body he had accidentally claimed, is Tom Riddle’s soulmate. And Harry Potter had become _him_.

Harford can’t help the hollow chuckle that exits his throat. Oh, _oh_ , what really, really _fucking bad luck_ , indeed.

His wrist pulses, and he watches quietly as the small dot steadily travels towards the center. Harford can’t help but smile, albeit sadly, wondering if Tom’s sedate pace is deliberate, as he does not want to seem too eager.

Harford’s heart weeps. _Oh, Tom_. 

More leaves crunch, but not under his own feet. He looks up, green eyes settling on a slightly disheveled-looking Tom Riddle, who is already so tall and handsome, it hurts. This boy will grow up to be one of the greatest, most feared wizards of all time, but at a great cost. 

(A cost that Tom will not have to spend, with Harford here to guide him.)

But right now, he is Tom Riddle, a dark-inclined, polite genius, who will start his fourth year next month. He is the Heir of Slytherin, who has amassed a horde of followers after years of bullying and isolation. He is _Harford’s soulmate_ , who is staring at him with wide eyes.

“Selwyn?” 

Harford smiles, and he moves for the first time since arriving at the gate. His fine, tailored robes don’t exactly billow, not like Snape’s would have, but they curtain elegantly over his matching trousers. Tom stares at him, avaricious eyes roving up and down his body, and Harford’s heart pangs. He must feel small and pathetic compared to Harford, who is dressed in finery while he is covered in secondhand clothes. 

(Harford makes a note to take him shopping for new clothes soon. New everythings, in fact. That will make Tom happy, right?)

“Hello, Riddle,” he greets. He wonders if he should have said his given name, but he knows how Tom hates the name he shares with his muggle father. He smiles as gently as he can, as to not threaten the younger boy. “I suppose you know why I’m here.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Tom says, squaring his shoulders, almost towering over Harford. His eyes bounce up and down his form again, and he licks his lips. “You’re _mine_. Aren’t you?”

Harford frowns and blinks slowly. He nods after a beat of silence, showing his pulsing soulmark. “I’m your _soulmate_ , yes.”

“ _Of course_ you are,” Tom says, and suddenly the air shifts. The unsure, wide-eyed look is gone, only to be replaced by his usual, sweet and charming smile… though that can’t be it. Not exactly. It’s more dangerous somehow. More _intense_. It sets Harford on edge, though he oddly does not feel threatened by it. He is rooted to the spot when Tom approaches, and he doesn’t look away when the boy leans _close_. “Took you long enough, _Harford_.”

Harford, to his mortification, blushes. He backs away this time, clearing his throat and huffing. “I _did_ just turn seventeen, Riddle. Though that was a few days ago, and I had—”

“I forgive you. You can always make it up to me,” croons Tom, smiling so beatifically that Harford’s brain just _stops_. He leans back and tilted his head towards the orphanage; his smile waning ever so slightly. “I will get my things. It will not take long; just a few minutes. You’ll take me away from here, won’t you? And you’ll be _right here_ when I come back. Yes?”

Harford blinks and nods. Satisfied, Tom smiles wider and takes his left hand and, to Harford’s wide-mouthed horror, _kisses the back of it_ , right where his Lordship ring sits. Tom straightens and smirks, walking back to the orphanage with a bounce in his step. When Tom disappears inside, Harford lets out the breath he had been holding in and stares wildly at the ground.

(He _resolutely_ does not think about how warm Tom’s lips had been… or how warm his own cheeks are.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao I can't with simp! and obsessed!Tom. I'm gonna have a bit of fun with this, and I hope you all enjoy the ride :)) I don't plan this to be too heavy or angsty, because my heart is weak and I'm too lazy to write those parts out haha. Also, I'll do my best to update regularly, like once a month at least, as I have already planned the entirety of the story, and outlined up to chapter six. I estimate this to be around thirty to forty chapters.
> 
> Thank you all for taking the time to read this. Please let me know what you think? I'm nervous;; I hope you all stay safe and healthy, and I wish you a very good day <3 if you wish to chat or be friends (yay!), you can visit my [Tumblr](https://prodigal-san.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/prodigal_san)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Notes:** Flirty 14-year-old Tom, as well as implied/reference underage sexual experience. Again, please let me know if I need to put the warning for these things. Also some referenced child abuse, neglect, and malnourishment. Please proceed carefully if any of these trigger you. Also, this is once again not beta-read LOL.

_September 10th, 1939_

Tom wants them all to _die_.

He snarls as he gets lifted by his worn jumper; his violent struggling only halting at the tell-tale sound of ripping fabric. He instantly stops, recalling that this is one of _two_ of his only jumpers. Tom’s face heats, but he definitely does _not_ cry when the older Slytherin boys start laughing at him even louder.

“You’ll be sorry,” he says once they’ve settled down. His pupils contract several times, and he claims his words like a curse. “You’ll _all_ be sorry. Mark my words, you’ll all pay for this!”

“ _Aww,_ would you look at that, boys?” says the burly brute holding him. _Crabbe_ , he thinks. Or Goyle. They are similarly stupid and inbred. “Mudblood Riddle thinks he can make _us_ pay. How adorable.”

“Of _course_ , he will, look how pitiful he looks! Would probably kill for a sickle, this one.”

“Would a knut suffice, you think?”

“ _Half a knut_ would do just fine for a mudblood!”

Tom seethes in rage, clenching his fists. His throat hurts and his eyes sting, but he _refuses_ to show weakness. He’ll show them. He’ll talk to the snakes in the room, the serpentine ornaments on the walls! He’ll talk to them, make these inferior worms _pay_ , and then they’ll quiver in fear. Even that old goat Dumbledore had been wary of his gift when they first met, and they talk about how powerful he is all the time. When he shows them, these boys will be kneeling on the ground at his feet soon enough, that’s for sure!

“Goyle.”

Tom cries out when he’s suddenly dropped. He winces, and only vaguely registers the older boys scrambling around him, as well as the mild itch on his left wrist. 

“S-Selwyn!” Goyle, the brute who had been holding him up, stammers. Exchanging a look with his friends, he puffed up his chest and gruffs out, “what’re _you_ doing here? This isn’t the Hospital Wing. You got lost, or something?”

Tom hears a few snickers, and then a series of loud yelps. He looks up to see two of the boys cradling their hands, hissing. 

“I think you should go,” says the newcomer named Selwyn. His accented voice—Scottish, Tom realizes—is raspy and quiet, but still manages to echo down the hall and smoothly travel down Tom’s bony spine. “Unless you want me to _make you_?”

There is a pause, before collective grumbles resound. The older boys start leaving, but one of them pauses to kick Tom in the stomach, just because, causing him to cry out.

Then the foot flies _far away_ , along with the rest of the boy’s body, crashing against the wall on the other side of the hallway. All of them, including Tom, stare wide-eyed as the boy slides all the way down to the floor and _doesn’t move_.

Tom remembers that they are in the middle of the hallway. He swallows.

“ _Get out of my sight_ ,” snarls Selwyn. “Now!”

The bullies run away, not bothering to check on their “friend.” Tom stares at the unconscious boy and starts snickering, but regrets it immediately when he begins coughing instead, clutching at his core.

Tom doesn’t notice Selwyn getting close until he sees black robes pooling in front of him. Tom flinches when a wand is pointed at him, but relaxes when a warm, light feeling washes over him. He pats at his stomach and gasps. _It doesn’t hurt anymore!_

“Are you all right?”

Tom looks up to see the newcomer for the first time and gapes. 

Selwyn is frowning, but his eyes are so warm and gentle. And very, very _green_.

Selwyn hesitates before offering him a hand. Tom stares at it warily before accepting it, scowling at the ground as he stands up. He ends up looking at his old shoes, full of holes and peeling leather. He remembers his own jumper, which is in _tatters_ now; hanging pathetically down his back. His whole body quivers as he seethes.

His shoes. His jumper. His _house_. He _hates, hates, hates_ them all so much.

“Would you like me to fix them?”

Tom looks up, blinking. “What?”

“Your shoes. And your jumper. They look like they’ve seen better days.” Selwyn taps his wand on his arm. It would have looked condescending, mocking even, if not for the frown marring Selwyn’s face. Like he hates Tom’s shoes, too. Like he _cares_. “I understand if you want to do it yourself, though. That way they can look however you want. Wouldn’t that be nice?

“So. Would you like me to fix them? Or teach you the spell instead?”

“You’d teach me?” Tom asks hungrily before schooling his features. His face heats up when Selwyn laughs—a throaty sound. But Tom quite likes it.

The small smile starting to form on his face falls. He looks up at the older student, glaring. “Why would you do that? What could you possibly gain?”

Because nobody helps _Tom_ without a reason. The matrons in the orphanage only feed him so they won’t get in trouble. The professors are only nice to him because it’s their job. But his peers, especially his fellow Slytherins? They see Tom as nothing but a vessel of insignificant, dirty blood— _he’ll show them, he’ll show them, he’ll show them!_ —and would rather bully and isolate him than help him. Selwyn is acting nice now, but the green in his tie and robes tell a different story.

“Hmm, nothing really. I won’t gain anything from helping you, it’s true. But.” Selwyn’s wand taps on his arm again. A tic, perhaps. “I still want to help you, anyway. Besides, the _Mending Charm_ is taught in your year, so it’s not like you won’t learn it eventually.”

“That’s all? Nothing else?”

“Yep. That’s all.”

“You better be telling the truth! I’ll know if you’re lying, I _always_ know. Then I’ll make you sorry for even trying.”

“I don’t doubt it, Riddle. So, what’ll it be?”

“Fine.” Tom nods after a pause, then searches his pockets. His eyes widen when he realizes. “My wand. _They took my wand_. Those _fucking_ —”

“Here.” His pale, yew wand appears in front of him, and Tom grabs at it greedily. Selwyn rolls his eyes. “And don’t swear, Riddle. It’s unbecoming.”

Tom shrugs, and then braces himself for what comes after he says: “I don’t care.”

Selwyn stares at him for a moment before a small smile graces his fine features. “Hmm. I suppose you really don’t. Oh, well.” 

Tom gapes. Selwyn just smiles wider and tilts his chin at Tom’s wand. “Well? Do you still want to learn the charm? You can impress Dumbledore with it tomorrow when class starts again.”

“I don’t care about that old goat,” Tom says without thinking. Then, against all logic, he confides, “He’s not gonna notice it, anyway. He doesn’t really like… Slytherins.”

“He doesn’t, does he?” Selwyn says softly, his eyes adopting a far-off look. He shrugs and looks back at Tom. “It’s still a useful spell to learn. And someone like you should be able to master it fast.”

“Someone like me?” Tom asks.

Selwyn’s eyes turn into lovely, green crescents when he smiles, Tom notices. “Someone great.”

Tom’s grip on his wand tightens. His eyes, bright and wide, don’t leave Selwyn’s green, green ones as he nods. “All right. I’ll learn it.”

“ _Great_ ,” Selwyn beams. Tom suddenly feels _parched_. “Let’s go somewhere else. I know the perfect place for us to practice.”

They walk side by side to the end of the hall, where Tom thinks Selwyn will lead him up the staircases. He vibrates with energy at the thought of practicing advanced magic—and one that will piss off Dumbledore, too! The old git had never liked Tom performing well. Selwyn pauses before they can pass the unconscious bully, and while Tom was busy glaring and wishing for him to _die, die, die_ , Selwyn mutters a spell, causing the boy to groan, but not wake.

“What did you do?” Tom asks. He curses himself for not catching the incantation, but it looks like a handy one.

Selwyn hesitates. Then, he says, “just made sure he won’t cause problems. I might need to get a hold of Goyle and the others, too.”

“I’ll help,” Tom volunteers readily, eyes gleaming. “But you’ll have to teach me that spell, too. And tell me what it is.”

Selwyn looks down at him, then sighs. He seems distracted when he smiles, nodding. “Okay, Tom. Whatever you want.”

Tom grins gleefully. He lets Selwyn lead him up the stairs; his mind wandering to new heights. Later, he’ll talk to the snakes and tell them what to do to Goyle and the rest of those worms. He’ll learn new spells from Selwyn, and he can fantasize all he wants about making them pay, _more than a knut, definitely_ , and soon they’ll all _die, die, die_ , just like Tom wants.

As for Selwyn… Selwyn can live. Just because.

* * *

_August 5th, 1941_

Tom stares at the folded clothes on his bed. Few will be able to tell that they are secondhand—discarded _rubbish_ from other people who can afford more and better. His control over the Mending Charm had grown leaps since he first learned it, and he’s even given it his own twist: _improving_ the object, beyond simply repairing it. 

He smirks to himself. His secondhand clothes and books look practically brand new, which never fails to make his spoiled, clueless housemates scratch their heads, and for old Dumbledore’s eyes to narrow in irritation. Tom revels in their confusion and envy, because he is meant for greatness despite his _humble_ beginnings, and no one can ever, ever compare.

Except for Harford, perhaps. He’s the top of his year, which makes sense, because he’s Tom’s soulmate, and Tom is the top of _his_ year. 

He sighs. Harford Selwyn—handsome, powerful, and caring Harford Selwyn is Tom Riddle’s _soulmate_. Finally, the world is starting to right itself. He is almost tempted to forgive it. _Almost_.

He quickly packs his things in his trunk—also secondhand, but who can tell now?—contemplating on what else to bring. His school things are a no brainer, as well as his uniforms and materials. He suspects Harford will provide him better quality items soon—how can he not, when Tom deserves the best?—so he will not bother with the truly ugly, pathetic items. His box of “treasures”—trinkets and sweets he’s nicked from the other orphans this summer—are all mere rubbish now. Tom will take into possession greater, finer things.

Harford’s smiling face fills his vision, and he sighs as his trunk closes with a satisfying click.

 _‘Yes,’_ he thinks blissfully, making his way down the noisy hall. _‘Greater, finer things, indeed.’_

* * *

Even in his new life, Harford still doesn’t _enjoy_ Apparition, not one bit. Although his new body seems to have a better grasp of magical control than his old one, since he and Tom are still standing after. To him, this makes sense: while Harford Selwyn had been comatose for almost five years since that dreaded tenth summer, he had _at least_ been fed and loved and taught. Harry Potter had been locked away from the world since he was a babe, and was malnourished and beaten and neglected.

Harford glances in Tom’s direction, eyes focusing on the younger boy’s thin wrists. Tom catches him staring, and Harford smiles.

“I hope you don’t mind, Riddle, but I Apparated us just outside the property wards,” he explains. He looks a bit further away, and Tom follows his line of sight, over the rolling hills and pink skies. “The view of the sunset here is phenomenal. I reckon you should see it on your first day here. You’re not bothered about walking a bit, are you?”

Tom shakes his head. “Not at all. Though is our… destination far?”

The quiet uncertainty in Tom’s voice makes Harford’s chest constrict. He shakes his own head in response. He motions for Tom to follow, and both of them quietly trek up the path, bearing witness to the breathtaking view of Harford’s family home.

The Selwyns own a total of eight properties in the United Kingdom: six in Great Britain, and two in Northern Ireland. Five of the properties had become empty since the Selwyns began having fewer and fewer heirs, and are now little more than charming backdrops in the lush countryside. That leaves three properties that are in habitable condition: the cottage and farm in Cornwall, Harloch Hall in Inverness, and the main Selwyn Manor, Dunans Hare, in the Clachan of Glendaruel, where they are headed. 

The cottage is a private retreat that Harford himself had visited frequently, while the Harloch Hall is now occupied by his half-uncle’s family. He, his wife, and Harford’s cousins had lived here in Dunans Hare with Harford until his seventeenth birthday almost a week ago. With only a tiny bit of shame, Harford admits that he is glad to be rid of his grandstanding, spendthrift uncle.

Uncle Harley, of course, had _not_ been happy to be kicked out, but Harford had only needed to show him his Lordship ring to convince him. The treatment is harsh, Harford knows, but he has his reasons. And he’s not just talking about uncle Harley throwing their family fortune around.

Harford and Tom enter the tall, vine-entwined gates just as the sun is about to take respite below the horizon. He avoids stepping on the patch of snapdragons and plantain lilies leading up to the main door, and he pauses to look fondly down at them. The manor’s sprawling grounds (as well as the manor itself) had turned him off in the beginning—too many memories, too many similarities to Malfoy Manor—but finding all these different kinds of flowers had inevitably won Harford over. He finds a chestnut-colored rabbit sleeping in a nearby patch of snapdragons, and coos.

There are rabbits and hares, too. _Lots of them_. The Selwyns have an obsession with them, apparently, but Harford isn’t complaining, as they add what he thinks is necessary levity to such an austere place.

The sound of wheels coming to a halt pull him back to reality. Harford sighs and straightens, turning to see Tom looking up at the impressive manor; eyes glinting with avarice.

Well, that shouldn’t last long, Harford hopes. What’s Harford’s is Tom’s now, after all. Because they are… soulmates.

And Harford had just plucked him out of his old, awful home without a care, like a madman.

Harford sighs again, rubbing at his temples. He’ll have to pay a visit to his attorneys and ask them if it’s legal for him to simply take his _very much underaged_ soulmate home like this. Harford himself has just reached majority and successfully claimed the Lordship of House Selwyn, and that comes with a lot of benefits, _sure_ , but he wonders if this will bite him in the arse one day. He has goals for the wizarding world—goals that he’d had time to really, really think about, after two years in the past—and he isn’t willing to risk his reputation before he can build it up. He supposes that _bribery_ can work to silence people, but does Harford want to go that far?

Glancing at Tom, he grimaces. He doesn’t want to resort to foul play… but if it means he’ll be able to keep Tom safe and away from wartorn muggle London, then so be it.

(Tom will _never_ have to want for anything while he’s here. Not food, not clothes, _not a way to cheat death_. Nothing.)

Harford approaches Tom, not able to help himself from smiling at the look of wonder on the younger boy’s face. Clearing his throat, he waits for Tom to turn towards him before saying, “well, this is your new home. What do you think, Riddle?”

Tom glances at the manor, then at the grounds. Manicured hedges; fragrant, blooming flowers, and hordes of _rabbits_ surround them. He focuses on one that draws near, its nose twitching as it glances curiously between Tom and Harford.

(Harford resolutely tries not to remember Billy Stubbs’ rabbit hanging from the rafters.)

“It’s… beautiful,” Tom says slowly. Harford bends down to pick up the adorable rabbit, and he finds Tom staring at him when he straightens up. The rabbit settles comfortably in his arms, and for some reason this causes Tom to sneer. “You know they’re _vermin_ , right? When left to overpopulate like this?”

Harford doesn’t rise to the bait. He simply shrugs, scratching behind the rabbit’s ears. “The Selwyns have always revered hares and rabbits, since they symbolize fertility, swiftness, and luck. Some of my ancestors even believe we _originated_ from them, as silly as that sounds. Even the central image of my family crest is the hare. You’ll see it when you enter the foyer. It’s very hard to miss.

“Anyway, are you hungry, Riddle?” Harford asks after a beat of silence. He pats the rabbit in his arms on the head and lets it hop down, and away. “I told the house elves before I left to prepare supper for two. I know I should probably give you a tour—it’s very easy to get lost around here, trust me—but I’m sure all the excitement today has tired you out.”

“A tour would be nice, but I wouldn’t say no to a meal, either,” says Tom softly. Then, with a smirk, he adds, “you know, snakes _love_ eating rabbits.”

Harford raises a brow at Tom, who was looking him up and down again. He must _really_ like Harford’s outfit, huh? “They love eating mice, too. And whatever else they can hunt. As far as I know, snakes aren’t _picky_ enough to have a favorite prey.”

(Not unless the snake’s name is _Nagini_ and loyal to a cruel megalomaniac. Her favorite prey had been muggleborns. And Harry Potter.)

Tom nods, though the concession does not ease his leer at all. “True, they take what they can get. But rabbits are _far_ more delicious, they say. Lean, _filling_. And their swiftness makes them a prize very worth the hunt. I should know. I talk to snakes.”

“I am aware, _Heir of Slytherin_.” Harford smiles, rolling his eyes at Tom’s efforts to weird him out, what with the ogling and all. Strange kid. “You’ll be happy to know, then, that while we love hosting rabbits and hares, we’re not at all hesitant to _eat_ them, too. I expect we’ll be enjoying warm rabbit stew or even hare roast later.”

“ _Fascinating_ ,” Tom says, and his tone sounds light enough to be sincere. Harford shakes his head and leads him up the steps, careful not to disturb the dozing hares and rabbits on the way.

Once they enter the manor, Harford clears his throat and says, “Bugs! Cocoa! Eggy!”

In an instant, three clean, bright-eyed house elves appear before them. They bow lowly at them both, their floppy ears briefly touching the marble floor. The house elf wearing an apron over her satin pillowcase beams up at him. “Master Harford be back! Did master be getting what he needs?”

“I did,” Harford says. He gestures to Tom, who seems to be staring at them thoughtfully. “Tom, these are Bugs, Cocoa, and Eggy. Bugs is my personal house elf, while Cocoa here is head of staff. Eggy is new to the staff, but very keen. He’ll be your personal house elf from now on. 

“Everyone, this is Tom. He’s my soulmate. Please make him feel welcome.”

“Welcomes very muchly, master Toms! We’s happy to see you!”

“Yes, yes, so very happy! Bugs is so full of joy seeing master Harford with his handsomely soulmate!”

“Does master Toms be wanting anything? Eggy will be getting it, rightly and swiftly!”

Before Tom can open his mouth, Harford beats him to the punch. “Tom had a long day, so I’ll be taking him up to get settled. Please have supper ready, as we’re both peckish from the trip. The room should be ready, shouldn’t it?”

“Yes, master Harford!” Cocoa answers and turns to Tom, her wide smile wrinkling her face further. “If master Toms be wanting it changed, just be saying to Cocoa!”

“Thank you,” Harford says, nodding as Tom’s mouth curls in a lazy smile. With a wave of his hand, the house elves disappear with a pop. He gestures to the grand, bifurcated stairs. “The rooms are up here. Let me show you.”

“I beg your pardon, Harford, but: _Eggy_?” Tom asks as they make their way up. His eyes briefly gloss over the Selwyn banner floating regally above the entresol. It really can’t be missed. “You named my house elf _Eggy_?”

“There’s no need to be rude. And I had nothing to do with it; that’s the name he was _born_ with. Also, Tom,” Harford pauses before they reach the top of the stairs. He levels Tom a stern look. “I know how house elves are seen as lowly creatures in wizarding society, and how the rest of our peers treat them… a certain way. But that is not so with my family, in my _house_. Treat our house elves well, especially young Eggy. Please?”

Tom’s nostrils flare. Harford braces himself for a combative retort, a sneer, _anything_ , but nothing like that ever comes. Instead, the younger boy nods; a strange smile on his face. “Very well. I will treat _our_ house elves well. I promise.”

“... Good.” Harford nods, satisfied. Perhaps Tom has taken that to mean the house elves in _their_ employ, and not in _general_ , but Harford will take his victories where he can, especially when it comes to Tom. Then, before continuing their trek, he offers Tom a grateful look. “Thank you, Tom. I appreciate it.”

Tom’s eyes soften. “Of course, Harford.”

Harford blinks, and he breaks their eye contact; his face suddenly warm. He clears his throat, muttering under his breath when he _hears_ Tom smirk. Little git.

Harford leads him down a bright hallway. Lavish, as is expected of an old, Pureblood home, but artfully so. The thin, sheer curtains blow inward, letting in the cool, evening breeze. Harford braves a glance at Tom, smiling when he finds the younger boy’s head swiveling in different directions.

Harford’s smile stays on for the rest of the trip.

“Here,” he says, opening the doors with his magic. He walks backwards to watch Tom’s reaction, sweeping his hand. “Your new rooms.”

The room is decorated in emeralds and ivories, accented by bits of aegean blues, which are found embroidered on the light curtains and sheets and sprawled up the cream walls. The French-style bed had been restored by Harford himself, as it hadn’t been used for more than a half century. He beams at the upholstered frame (designed to look like serpent scales) and matching curtains cascading at the sides, like a waterfall; that had been the rush fee, he thinks.

“Do you like it?” Harford asks when Tom approaches the bed slowly, running a hand down the smooth, silky sheets. 

“It’s,” Tom begins, sitting down. After a beat of silence, he tests the bed by sitting and _bouncing_ on it. Harford bites his lips to stifle a laugh. “It’s _wonderful_. Far better than I was expecting.”

Harford sighs in relief and clasps his hands together. “Oh, thank Merlin. I don’t think I’ll be able to stomach having everything redone. Renovating this room had cost quite a bit, but I think it’s all worth it in the end, if you like it.”

“This was renovated?” Tom asks, raising a brow. Then his frown morphs into a handsome grin very quickly, and Tom lays a hand over his chest. “Ah, I see. You did this all for me, didn’t you? I’m _so_ flattered, Harford. I don’t know what to say. How can I _ever_ express my gratitude?”

“That’s not necessary, Riddle,” Harford says, shaking his head with a smile. “After all, it’s only natural that you should sleep in a room that’s to your liking. Mine is a bit similar in design, though it has more blues than greens. Family motif.”

The smile on Tom’s face falls promptly. “ _What._ ”

Harford blinks, then shudders when he feels the temperature in the room fall very quickly. The sun had already set behind the mountains outside the window, so Harford briefly thinks that it’s just the work of the cool, evening air.

But Tom rises, and the temperature falls even further, and Harford’s breath hitches.

Tom is cross. But _why_?

“Is there something wrong, Riddle?” he asks, voice level and lilted in placating tones. “Maybe the bed is a bit too much, after all? I suppose you’d want something simpler, like a low poster bed, or—”

“ _Why do I have my own room_?” Tom hisses, his robes billowing as he backs Harford against the wall.

“What?” Harford breathes out; brows furrowing as he stares up at a scowling Tom. “Well—why _wouldn’t_ you? I’m not going to make you sleep in the kitchens, or on the floor! Unless… that is what you want? But I must say, Riddle, that’s—”

“Let me rephrase my question,” Tom interjects with a voice so quiet it sends shivers up Harford’s spine. He leans closer, their noses practically touching. “ _Why do we have separate bedrooms_?”

Harford stares. And stares. Then, with dawning horror, chokes out, “ _I beg your pardon_?”

His Scottish accent comes out thicker than usual, as well as higher-pitched, but Harford isn’t paying attention to the way he’s speaking right now. He can’t have _possibly_ heard right. There’s just no way Tom had asked what he just did. The implications of it all—it was quite _ridiculous_. It just isn’t possible.

And yet, Harford is proven wrong when Tom draws back just a bit, crossing his arms over his chest and huffing. “We’re _soulmates_ , Harford. Surely you realize what that means?”

Harford glares at him. “I don’t know, _Riddle_ , what do _you_ think it means?” It’s an immature response, but Harford’s brain is all over the place at the moment. Surely he can be forgiven for such a weak retort.

“It _means_.” Harford’s eyes widen when Tom’s scowl melts into a smirk, eyes half-lidded as long, spidery fingers walk up all the way up his torso and up to his neck. He screams silently when Tom taps him on the nose. “That we should _sleep together_. In the same room. On the same _bed_. Don’t you think so?”

Seconds pass. Harford, contradictory to just a few seconds ago, suddenly feels like the entire room has been catapulted towards the sun, for the sweat on his brow and neck can only mean he has fallen into some form of _hell_. Tom, like the devil he truly is, just smiles, seemingly amused by Harford’s predicament.

That’s what this is, he thinks. Tom is just being a cheeky little git. He always has been. It calms him somewhat, knowing that the younger boy is just pulling his leg, but… he has to make sure, yes? That’s the responsible thing to do. And he fears his heart won’t rest easy until Tom confirms it with a snicker and a mocking grin.

“You can’t mean that,” Harford says moments later, huffing out a laugh. He shakes his head. “ _Very funny_ , Riddle. You got me. Now, if you can ease up on the teasing, I—”

“Who is teasing whom?” asks Tom, raising a brow. He pokes Harford’s cheeks, _one, two_ , and scowls. “You’re the one who is denying your soulmate, Harford. Separate rooms, _really_. How unnecessary.”

Harford’s mind halts to a stop. His eyes travel down, focusing on Tom’s hand resting on his hips. His fingers dig, applying just a tiniest bit of pressure. Harford lifts his head up to stare into Tom’s eyes in horror. “ _No_.”

“ _Yes_.”

“Riddle, you can’t possibly mean that. You don’t understand what it is you’re asking.”

“I am asking to sleep in the same room as my soulmate, on the same _bed_. Perhaps _you_ are the one who doesn’t understand.”

“ _Tom_!” Harford screeches. He takes a moment to draw back and clear his throat. “I mean. Riddle. You’re not… It can’t happen. What you’re saying is not _appropriate_. Even if… Even if we’re soulmates, what you ask of me _cannot be done_. I’m sorry.”

“Why _not_?” Tom asks gruffly, brows furrowed and mouth curled. “Why can’t I sleep next to you? Tell me!”

“ _You’re fourteen_ ,” Harford answers pleadingly.

“And you’re seventeen,” Tom throws back casually. “Need we mention each other’s hair color next? Point out our heights, our eyes? You do have the most strikingly green eyes, Harford. So _pretty_.”

Harford blanches. He points a finger in Tom’s face. “You’re—You’re being deliberately obtuse!”

“And you’re being needlessly obstinate. So _what_ if I’m fourteen?” Tom scowls, tapping his foot. “It’s not like I’ll tell. And the house elves won’t say a thing if we tell them not to. They’ll obey us.”

“That’s not the _point_.” Harford drags a hand down his face; his styled, dark locks coming loose from all the excitement. “You’re underaged, Tom. And I’m technically seen as an adult in the wizarding world now. No matter what our reasoning, _it’s inappropriate_. I understand that you probably just want to be close and spend time together, and I _do_ appreciate that, but really, we can do it elsewhere, like in the library or the gardens—”

“I did not take you to be an exhibitionist, Harford. That is quite surprising,” says Tom, his eyebrows raised. 

Harford looks up at Tom blankly. “What.”

Tom tilts his head, staying quiet for a moment, before smirking and shrugging. “Well, I suppose we all have our… kinks. I won’t judge you, Harford, for I have a few inclinations, myself. I’d rather think you’ll find them _fascinating_.”

“Inclinations,” Harford echoes.

Tom hums and nods. “Yes. We can discuss those some other day. But I will have to _insist_ that we still sleep in the same rooms. I’d rather our first time be on a bed—”

“ _Tom_ ,” Harford interjects forcefully. He places his hands on Tom’s shoulders—he refuses to compare them to his own, which are slightly narrower—and _pushes_. “No.”

Tom stares. Then his mouth curls. “Why do you—”

“Riddle, _please_. We’re not— _you’re not_ —” Harford cuts himself off, hanging his head. After a few beats of silence, says, “I can’t allow anything to happen between us. At least, _not yet_. I know you’re young and curious and perhaps even a little experienced yourself, but I’m not so keen to break the law. I promise we can talk about it eventually, but can you… respect my wishes for now? _Please_?”

He raises his head to stare into Tom’s eyes, which are wide and glassy. His mouth has softened into a small frown, which twitches every now and then as seconds pass. Tom’s eyes attempt to find purchase, focusing nowhere and everywhere at once, until they once again land on Harford’s pleading eyes. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair; blowing air through his nose.

“I will… accept it. For now.” Harford lets out a relieved breath. Then he yelps when his hands are brushed away, and it’s _his_ turn for his shoulders to be held. Tom’s smile is sweet and dangerous all at once. “But I will hold you to that promise, _dear soulmate_. I will respect your hesitance for now, but I _will_ get what I want eventually. I always do.”

“I don’t doubt it, Riddle—”

“Tom.”

“... I’m sorry?”

“Call me Tom,” says Tom, tilting his head. “Soulmates don’t call each other by their surnames. Do they? _Harford_?”

Harford blinks. Tom wants to be called by his name? The one he hates with all his being? That doesn’t make sense, but Harford nods anyway. “Tom, then.”

Tom’s eyes soften. “ _Good_.”

Harford swallows. He gently takes Tom’s hands off of his shoulders and steps out of the younger teen’s looming shadow. He points at the door and clears his throat. “Right. Well, I’ll be… leaving you to it. The bathroom’s over there, and it’s fully stocked. You can take a bath before supper, if you wish. I’ll just be… in my office. Yes.”

Tom smirks and nods, leaning against the wall Harford had been backed against. Harford stares at the strong lines his silhouette makes. “Very well. Perhaps I _will_ bathe, Harford.”

“Right. Well. See you later,” Harford says before flying out the door. His hand immediately covers his mouth, and he is horrified to feel heat on his cheeks. He closes his eyes and lets his feet take to where he needs to go: away from Tom, who is probably laughing at Harford’s discomfort, like the cheeky, lying brat he is.

But _is_ he lying? That had been Harford’s assumption earlier. But that stare, that smile, _that touch_. They all seem too loaded for Harford to blissfully dismiss as childish cheekiness. No, this is probably the real thing, and that changes _everything_. Harford needs to take care, lest Tom’s indiscretion and impulsiveness ruin all his plans.

He groans as he enters his late father’s study, fretfully wondering: when on earth did Tom Marvolo Riddle start _fancying_ him, anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOSH, I didn't expect such a reception! I told myself I'd upload the second chapter (which was already written when I first posted this fic) when I get 100 kudos or so, and I just crossed that milestone just yesterday. I'm so floored, WOW. Thank you guys so much :(((( I hope I am able to express my gratitude with this longer chapter. Try not to expect such quick updates next time, though lmao
> 
> Are you all curious about Harry's new identity and family? You'll all find out as we go along. I hope my interpretation of the Selwyns intrigued you :) ALSO! Dunans Hare is based on [Dunans Castle](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dunans_Castle) in the same location. I was searching for manors and castles in Scotland when I came across it, and I found out that its current owner has _SELWYN_ in his name. Like, if that's not a sign, I don't know what is :))
> 
> Again, thanks so much for your interest! I feel very validated and fulfilled right now HAHAHAHA <3 Stay safe always, my friends <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Notes:** Again, Tom is a very thirsty and horny underaged wizard 😆 please approach with caution if such things disturb you. This is not beta-read.

_August 12th, 1939_

“M-Master Selwyn?” squeaks a high-pitched voice from the doorway. “I be bringing your lunch now. Is Master be feeling better today?”

Harry ignores the house elf and stares at the far wall, which is crawling with pretty, green vines and hopping hares. He ignores the creature’s sighs, and the tray that levitates in front of him. It’s stew today, he thinks, and it smells really delicious. But he plans to ignore it, too, like the meal that had come before it. 

What he _can’t_ ignore is the rumbling of his belly, the headache throbbing at his temples, and the exhaustion blooming under his eyes. He can’t ignore the pins and pricks of his longer, paler legs bent under him on the soft, cloud-like bed; can’t ignore his spidery fingers as they rub obsessively over his thin arms.

Because sensory inputs like that don’t mean you’re _dreaming_ , do they? And if this isn’t a dream, it means what Harry is seeing, feeling, and smelling, _is real_. And if everything is real…

Harry takes hold of the silver tray in front of him and throws it at the door; the shattering of ceramic and screeching of metal drowning his anguished, frustrated cries. 

If everything is real, then there’s really no mistaking it: Harry is stuck in this horrible, new reality. Possibly forever, if he doesn’t figure this out.

He vaguely registers the door opening as he frets, and he turns to see a middle-aged man walk in; eyes wide, and brows furrowed. Like he is torn between calling out in concern and sneering in disgust. It’s a welcome expression, Harry thinks; he is used to that back in his old life. Back when he was Harry Potter. Now, he’s—

“ _Harford, really_ ,” says the man. He sighs and pulls out his wand to wave it. In seconds, the ruined carpets sparkle again, and the broken cutlery and flatware look brand new. “ _Another_ episode? Merlin, when will this end?”

Harry scowls and turns away. He regrets his choice immediately, as his movement forces him to look directly into a standing mirror near the wardrobe. The face staring back is gaunt, though unmistakably chiseled and handsome, and his hair had a slight wave, though none of the familiar wildness. It is like looking at a different person, and Harry thinks _duh_ , of course it is, you fucking tit, because the person looking at him right now _is not him_.

(And yet, it was the face Harry first saw since waking up in this fucked-up place, and it has been staring back at him ever since. Harry might have destroyed that mirror more than once.)

The only thing familiar about this person is the color of their irises: bright green, like his own had been. Like his _mother’s_. But they are framed by slanted, almond-shaped eyes, and Harry is suddenly struck by memories of a delicate-looking Asian woman, whose voice he’s never heard, but whose loving touch and care he—

He shudders and wraps his arms around himself, rocking back and forth. ‘ _Please, stop,’_ he begs to the quiet void in his head. ‘ _Please stop this. Take me back where I belong. Please!’_

Because Harry Potter doesn’t belong here. He belongs back to _his_ time, his reality, for he has a mission to complete. He has to die to save the world from Voldemort. He has to go back and _die_ , because he’s Harry Potter: the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One. Not this... this Harford Selwyn. Not the boy who grew up with smiling, doting, _loving_ parents. 

Those people aren’t his parents. His parents are dead. They’re _dead_.

“Yes, they’re dead.” The man’s voice startles him out of his reverie. Harry looks up to a pinched face. “But you’re not. And that’s... a blessing, Harford. So I suggest you get your head on straight and start acting like a _Selwyn_ _,_ like you ought to. It’s what your father would have wanted.”

At Harry’s wide-eyed silence, the man sighs shakes his head. With another withered, worried look, he leaves Harry in the lavish, cavernous room. After the door shuts close, Harry crumples to the ground on his knees and heaves; the expensive carpet bunching under his fingers as he closes his fists real tight.

When the man had mentioned “father,” Harry should have thought of James Potter—messy-haired, cheeky-grinned _James Potter_. But instead, it’s a complete stranger. A stranger with brown curls, an aged, but handsome face… and warm honey eyes that crinkle every time he smiled at Harry. Harford. _Harry_.

 _‘Please take me back,’_ Harry begs in his mind as he cries; images of his parents waging a war with complete strangers assaulting him. He sobs loudly when he realizes that they are _losing_. _‘I don’t belong here. Take me back. Take me back,_ please! _’_

(For if he does not go back, Harry fears he may lose more than what he already has.)

* * *

_August 5th, 1941_

It’s been a little more than two years since that day, Harford realizes. Two years since he has woken up to this strange, frightening new reality—seeing with the same eyes, yet not. These eyes are not Lily Potter’s legacy, after all. They had been gifted to him by a completely different woman: Harford Selwyn’s mother. His mother. Yet not.

Harford looks up at an unmoving portrait in his late father’s study—his study now, he corrects himself quietly—and studies the faces of familiar strangers. It’s a befuddling feeling; this hollow ache in his chest that beats in-time with his pulse. Harford, as he is now, should not feel anything for the proud, regal couple immortalized in pigment and oil before him, yet his heart pangs all the same at the sight of their faces—at the memory of his last ever contact with them.

Lord Hargrave Selwyn, former Lord of the House of Selwyn, and his wife, Lady Qiang Chang, had been murdered on Heir Harford Selwyn’s tenth birthday while they were on holiday. By none other than fucking _Grindelwald_.

(Harford remembers the day he first learns of this; how he had laughed and laughed and _laughed_ , before destroying the fountain in the back gardens in a fit of rage because what the _fuck_ is it with him and tragedy wrought by bloody dark lords?)

Harford takes a few steps forward and lightly touches the golden frame, peering up at the painting; unmoving and completely _muggle_ , of all things. Unlike most Pureblood families, the Selwyns prefer to immortalize their predecessors the old-fashioned way: that is, _without_ magic. Something about respecting the passing of loved ones by not deluding the self with moving puppets and miming pretenders, or the like. Whatever the real reason, Harford is both relieved and disappointed by this: relieved, because he does not think he can bear to walk in these cavernous hallways lined with the faces of unfamiliar ghosts that beckon to his bleeding, lonely heart; and disappointed, because, _well_ , no matter how estranged, _anyone_ would be curious about their parents, would they not? 

(Harry Potter, covered in his cloak and faced with an enchanted mirror, had not been an exception to this. He doubts Harford Selwyn, covered in finery and faced with a still memory, would be, either.)

Yes, anyone would be curious… especially, if one of the parents is related to their first ever girlfriend. Will be related. Because said girlfriend hasn’t even been _born_ yet.

Harford is torn between smashing his face against the wall and screaming his lungs out the window. It’s been two years, yet he cannot stop himself from being embarrassed by the fact that he is now related to the Changs. Granted, it’s Qiang’s older brother who would provide the line to bear Cho, but knowing that he’ll eventually become Cho’s _cousin_ is… how can he describe it? Embarrassing? Mortifying? Harrowing?

He sighs. He’ll just… have to make sure to avoid her in the future, then. Related or not, he _refuses_ to meet the eyes of the first girl he had ever snogged. That’s just too fucked up, even for him.

Shaking his head, he sighs again and steps away from the portrait; only sparing it a glance as he makes his way to his father’s desk. _His desk_. He sits in the tall and frankly intimidating armchair—really, father, _so pretentious_ —and waves his hand to light the lamp on the desk. It casts a bright bluish glow on the shiny desk, as well as brings attention to a simple journal sitting innocently on top.

But it’s not just a simple journal, is it?

Harford flips the journal open to the most recent page, where doodles and diagrams sit between half-formed plans and postulations. With a finger, he taps on the bottom of the newest page; a list that is encircled aggressively with red, glaring ink.

 _Future Horcruxes and Where to Find Them_ , the name of the list cheekily reads. It is then succeeded by: diary, then ring, then locket, then cup, then diadem, then…

 _‘That should be it,’_ Harford thinks, taking a blue quill out of a nearby holder to gnaw on as he glares down at the journal, like the lack of certainty it provides is its fault.

(He doesn’t think about how childish he might look, biting onto a quill. He also doesn’t think about how Qiang would silently tut and shake her head at his lack of manners, and how Hargrave would sigh but smile dotingly down at him all the same.)

Thinking about it, the diary may or may not exist; he doesn’t remember _why_ Tom in his old life had gotten one in the first place, only that he did. Still, he will take note of observing Tom closely to see if he comes into possession of something similar. Maybe Harford himself can give him one? But how to make sure he does nothing strange with it? He’ll have to take note, right here, on a new page. That’s it. Better make a note for the rest of the items on the list.

He taps the tip of the quill on the word, _ring_ . The Gaunt Ring had actually been the first object he thought of since waking up to his new reality, right before the locket, and Harford had even planned to visit the Gaunt Shack to appropriate it the previous summer. But Uncle Harley had made a rather misguided purchase of not one, but _two_ Parisian chateaus, claiming they were to be gifts for his wife, and Harford had to deal with the fallout of that for most of the summer. 

It had also presented the idea that collecting a Deathly Hallow while his Uncle still had authority over him would not be the wisest thing to do. Harford plans to collect it before school starts this year. Hopefully he’ll be able to sneak out without Tom finding out. Perhaps he can use his lordship as an excuse?

The locket is simple enough to acquire. In fact, he might purchase it from Borgin and Burkes while he and Tom shop for their school things. He might even give it to Tom for his birthday, as it’s only right that the Heir of Slytherin should be in possession of their ancestor’s artifact. The diadem and cup, though…

He sighs and leans back in his chair, frowning. All he knows about the diadem is that it’s buried under a hollow tree in Albania—which, by the way, isn’t much of a hint. How the fuck did Tom find it the first time around?—and Harford isn’t willing to uproot every single tree in the country just to find it. He thinks about asking Bugs to look for it, but wonders if it’s safe to do so. And Tom would definitely notice his absence.

The cup should be with the Smiths, which means the only way to acquire it is to take a leaf from Tom’s book and steal it. As it’s one of the last horcruxes Voldemort from his time had made before his untimely demise, Harford thinks he can afford to take his time and really plan this out. And if he can somehow prevent Tom from making horcruxes altogether, he might not even need to steal it.

Which brings him to the reason why this list exists in the first place—

Harford turns to the very first pages of the journal, which were written in the middle of his fifth year. The journal itself had been first purchased from Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop in Hogsmeade. He skips the entries that are mostly daily logs and observations of Tom’s behavior and finds the one he is looking for:

 _How to Prevent Tom from Becoming Lord Voldemort._ Underlined profusely for emphasis.

First, his plan had been to get Tom out of muggle London during the Blitz. He doesn’t recall if the Tom in his old reality had ever experienced any of those raids, but he knows that the muggle war had, in a way, solidified his fear of death. As an ambitious half-blood with a thirst to prove himself, Tom would find irrelevance in the form of dying a quick, obscure death a terribly frightening thing, indeed. Providing him security and safety would mostly solve that, Harford had thought.

He had also planned to find and save Tom’s soulmate—or at least, to find out their identity. Recalling his conversation with Dumbledore that time, Harford knew that they would die around Tom’s second year, so he had spent every waking hour in his fifth year researching and eavesdropping for clues. All the late, stress-filled nights had forced him to take many trips to the Hospital Wing, as his body wasn’t, and still isn’t, as healthy as it should be. When the year had ended, Harford mourned the fact that he had been unsuccessful, and that Tom’s soulmate had already passed; causing the boy unbearable, soulful pain that he, at that age, wouldn’t be able to understand.

Harford had mourned over that for the past year… that is, until his seventeenth birthday when his soulmark had come to life and led him to Wool’s Orphanage. 

(Harford will repeat this until his final breath: what fucking _bad luck_ , indeed!)

He sighs and, impulsively, runs neat lines over these two “plans” and tries to stay positive. Bizarre as it may be to be stuck in the past in his “equal’s” soulmate’s body, he won’t deny that it provides him a very opportunistic avenue to steer Tom into a different path. One that is not so grim and dark and bloody. Perhaps one that is not peaceful—for how can the world know peace when a powerful, prodigal maelstrom like _Tom Marvolo Riddle_ lives and breathes—but one that does not tear the universe asunder with crazed, malevolent beliefs. Yes, Harford will have an easier time keeping Tom in line indeed if he’s the boy’s soulmate.

But such an opportunity, such _fortune_ , comes with a hefty cost: and that is, apparently, Harford’s sanity. And also, possibly, most fucking likely, his purity.

He groans and buries his red face in his hands, trying very hard not to recall Tom’s half-lidded smolder and lazy grin. What happened earlier had been such a fucking _plot twist_. As someone who never had a soulmark in his first life, Harford had completely dismissed the soulmate phenomenon, and thus had easily forgotten that most soulbonds are romantic by nature. It also doesn’t help that the only soulbonds he had been closely aware of were either the rare platonic ones, like in Fred and George’s case, or the broken ones, like in Cho Chang’s case.

It had been foolish of him to assume that Tom would not be interested in a romantic bond. Or rather, it had been foolish of him to not have thought about it, _period_. Harford had failed to cover all his bases, and he blames himself for such a stupid oversight. But Tom had _never_ expressed any interest in him before! How could Harford have known it would end up like this?

And Tom—oh, _Tom_ , that cheeky little _hormonal_ devil—had done the insane and unthinkable by _propositioning_ him. At fourteen years old! Harford isn’t so prudish that he thinks teenagers don’t get sexual before seventeen but holy fucking _shit_ , Tom!

(He starts to recall his own sexual escapades, but promptly veers off that road because nope, he is _not_ going to think about snogging his first ever girlfriend who will eventually be born as his cousin that he’s related to through his mother _nope, nope, nope_.)

Harford flips to the most recent page again and starts a new list: _How to Get a Horny Teenager to Heel Without Using Violence or Breaking the Law_. Underlined thrice. _More emphasis_.

He groans and lets his head fall onto the desk with a dull _thud_. Somehow, he thinks this list is going to be more of a chore fill, because as of the moment, Harford can think of absolutely _nothing_.

* * *

Tom runs his hand down the length of the sturdy, high-quality bookshelves as he walks down the aisle; smiling widely as he explores the vast Selwyn library that he plans to utilize very, _very_ soon. It’s not as large as the Hogwarts library, of that there is no doubt, but somehow that makes it even _better_ in Tom’s eyes. The library at school holds many books and tomes of knowledge and crafts, but the subject matter of said reading materials are broad and mostly, woefully, light-oriented. A library owned by an old Pureblood family like the Selwyns will have more fascinating and educational books for Tom to peruse for sure. Something more aligned to his _interests_.

And to think, this is just the _main_ library. There are three more in the manor, according to his little house elf, as well as personal book collections hidden in studies and vaults. Tom is already salivating at the thought of perusing those books eventually, as is his right as Harford’s soulmate and future spouse.

He sighs and lays a hand on his silk-covered chest. _Future spouse_. Harford will be his spouse. _His_ , as he had been fated to be the moment Tom deemed him worthy of his time and attention. Even the knowledge of soulmates had not deterred Tom in the slightest; after all, while rare, platonic soulmates _do_ exist, and Pureblood society mostly shuns the phenomenon anyway, as most bonds involve a half-blood, a muggleborn, or even a _muggle_. Tom had sneered privately at such a narrow-minded practice, for power increased tenfold is surely worth the unfortunate mismatch, but after meeting Harford, he had decided he too will shun his soulmate, if it means that he can be with Harford.

Then Fate had decided to correct her wrongs by making Harford Selwyn Tom’s. His. His, his, his, _his, aaaaalll his._ Just as he should be. It is almost enough for Tom to forgive Fate for assigning him to such an ill-fitted, miserable life. Almost.

But his soulmate just _has_ to be the righteous sort. Tom scowls at his reflection on one of the antique mirrors decorating the walls; oh, Tom had been aware of Harford’s noble and upright nature. It is even one of the older boy’s qualities Tom, begrudgingly, admired. But what right does he have to deny Tom so? No one will know if they do not tell them. Why delay the inevitable?

Tom huffs through his nostrils and shakes his head. Whatever his soulmate’s reasons are, it is obvious that Harford feels quite strongly about it. Tom doesn’t understand, but he will respect them for now. Though he refuses to wait till he’s seventeen before he can _touch_ Harford. That’s just unnecessary torture. 

Tom taps his chin, humming. He’ll have to seduce his soulmate somehow. Tom is well-aware of his good looks and charm, and how affected people are by him, and judging by Harford’s reaction earlier, his soulmate doesn’t seem to be immune to his guile, either. He just needs a bit of a push, is all. It can’t be something brash or direct—Tom’s no fucking Gryffindor—but neither can it be too subtle. Tom will need to find the perfect balance to reel in his endearingly _proper_ soulmate.

His scheming briefly comes to a halt when he finds himself staring up at a portrait of a young, curly-haired man above one of the fireplaces. The subject has Harford’s face shape and nose, but that’s where the resemblance ends. Cocking his head, Tom recalls the rumors that he had overheard in the common room—bits of information about Harford that he had greedily collected, knowing that he was unlikely to obtain them directly from the source—about a talented, world-renowned duelist who had suffered a deformity from a dark spell gone wrong during a match, forcing him to become a recluse. About him waiting years before being led to his soulmate, who was a young, beautiful woman pursued and loved by many, but had been declared no better than a squib after losing her voice in a potions accident.

Two outcasts finding each other just when society had spurned them… only to meet a tragic, violent fate at the hands of a dark lord. Tom would have thought the tale insipid if it did not involve his would-have-been in-laws, if Harford had not lost them.

Lost.

Tom stares at his hands, frowning. Harford had lost his legacy, just like Tom. But _unlike_ Tom, he had been born a Pureblood, a darling of magical society, and proof of that legacy stands around him like a cathedral of blue and green. Tom’s only proof of his magical heritage are his parseltongue… and a firm, determined belief that he is just _better_ than the fools around him.

(Not for the first time, Tom finds himself envying Harford. But he will never admit that. _Never_.)

Still, it’s a similarity, a _connection_ , and Tom plans to use it to his advantage. Perhaps when Harford sees how alike they are, it will make Harford’s unnecessary resolve to protect Tom’s innocence crumble. Not completely, but… it will definitely form a crack. And Tom plans to scratch and bite and poke at it relentlessly till it splits apart; with Harford falling down at Tom’s feet in reverence.

(Harford at his feet— _oh_ , that is a wonderful mental image. He will have to save that for later.)

A faint pop draws his eyes from the painting, and he sees Eggy bowing before saying, “supper’s be ready for masters Toms and Harford. Does master Toms be needing Eggy to lead him to the dining hall?”

Tom bites back a particularly sharp demand to not call him _Toms_. He remembers Harford’s plea for _gentleness_ and nods, trying not to roll his eyes when the ugly thing beams and gestures to the doors. “Right this way, master Toms!”

“Thank you,” he says just because, and he sighs when the small thing bursts into tears and starts waxing poetic about _how master Toms be such a kindly wizard_. Tom spares the portrait of young Hargrave Selwyn one last glance before finally following his house elf, making a note to find out more about Harford’s family before summer ends.

After all, it’s _his_ family now too, isn’t it? It’s only proper.

* * *

Harford meets Tom in the dining hall after taking a bath himself, and his eyes light up when he sees the younger boy wearing the emerald sleeping robe he had purchased beforehand. Tom looks like your typical, pureblooded heir, and the small smile on the younger boy’s face shows that he’s very much aware of it. 

“Is it to your liking?” Harford asks when he stands in front of Tom. “The robe, I mean.”

Tom blinks, then looks down at his form. With a small smirk, he shrugs with one shoulder and says, “I daresay it will do for the meantime. The material is exquisite, of course, of that there is no doubt. You have an impeccable eye for style, it seems.”

Harford shakes his head, grinning. “Not really. I just picked what I thought would suit your tastes the best. It’s not a big deal. I’m glad you like it, though.”

“Oh?” Tom’s retort sounds delighted, and Harford lifts his head to see Tom’s smirk turn into a full-blow grin. “You’ve taken enough notice of me to understand my tastes? Why, I’m so flattered, Harford. Truly.”

Harford blushes and coughs into his fist, glaring at Tom who is still sporting that irritating, shit-eating grin. “Don’t be daft, Tom. Just because I’m observant doesn’t mean I’m favoring you over others. Again, no big deal.”

“I don’t recall claiming you to be favoring me over others, Harford,” Tom says, blinking innocently. The charade crumbles when Harford starts sputtering, and there is a glint in his eyes as he folds his hands behind him and looms over Harford like an irritating, cheeky cloud. “I do not object to such a thing, of course. Feel free to keep _favoring me over others_ , as you so eloquently put.”

“You’re quite the cheeky brat, aren’t you?” Harford’s accent becomes stronger as he mutters this, and he resolutely ignores the victorious gleam in Tom’s eyes as he not-quite stomps to the head of the table. 

The table itself isn’t too long, as they are in the private dining hall, and not the larger one used to entertain guests. Harford’s most recent memories of this table are stained by his uncle’s condescension and indifference, but if he thinks hard enough, he can recall a time where it’s just the three of them: him, mama, and papa, that is. Harford starts smiling when his mind plays a particular memory where a younger version of him talks animatedly about the newest racing broom while his parents listen attentively.

He shakes his head, flushing. Not your parents, Harford. _Not really_.

Harford sits at the head of the table, as is his right as Lord Selwyn. Traditionally, the spouse sits on the opposite end, with guests and children seated in their appropriate places in the middle, but he vividly recalls Qiang sitting at Hargrave’s left, with tiny Harford at his father’s right. 

When he notices Tom taking his seat at the far end, he clears his throat, making the younger boy pause. Flushing further, he gestures to the seat on his left. 

“My… mother used to sit here. Right next to my father. You can sit here too, if you want,” he offers as an explanation. When Tom raises his brows, Harford sputters and waves his hands in front of him. “I mean, it’s not a position or rank thing—I’m not going to insult you like that. It’s just... You’re my soulmate. And that makes you my equal. That’s all.”

Tom blinks at him, then sighs. “You needn’t pander to me, Harford. I am well aware of my place as the soulmate of Lord Selwyn. I am, after all, a penniless wizard who has yet to trace his roots in the wizarding world.”

Harford winces at the no-nonsense tone in Tom’s voice. Surely that hadn’t been easy to admit, especially for Tom. “You’re the Heir of Slytherin, though. Your ability to use parseltongue is proof of it. If nothing else, you’re my equal for that alone.”

“True,” Tom says, casual as he is making his way to Harford’s left. He sits gracefully next to Harford, who can only watch enviously as he does so. How can someone so young be _that_ regal? Honestly. “But until I have proof of that, I cannot officially claim to be such. I have yet to trace my _exact_ roots to Slytherin, though I plan to do so before the year is up. I have only begun to research, after all.”

“That so?” Harford asks, genuinely intrigued. He had never found out as Harry Potter when, exactly, Tom thought to use his maternal grandfather’s name to find his direct connection to Slytherin, so this is honestly very intriguing to him. So that means it would be around this time, then, when he learns about the Gaunts.

(Harford really needs to get that ring. And maybe get the Riddles to safety too, before Tom does anything foolish.)

At the thought of the Gaunts, Harford’s eyes widen, and he turns to a frowning Tom with a small smile. “You know, I plan to order a money pouch for you at Gringotts, once I confirm with my attorneys that I can _legally_ take you from the orphanage—”

“Wait, you didn’t confirm that _before_ you went to pick me up?”

“—and since we’re going to need to visit there sometime before school starts anyway, why don’t we do an inheritance test? To see your family tree?”

Tom pauses as he places a deep blue napkin on his lap. His face is carefully blank. “Inheritance test?”

Harford nods, just as the table fills with mouth-watering delights from the kitchen; Harford had been right to assume they’d be having a roast _and_ a stew. “It’s a service that the goblins provide to prove blood relations, as well as right of inheritance and ownership. I had to go through it once to claim my Heir ring, and then my Lordship ring.”

Tom’s brows rose so high up they almost reach his hairline. He stares at his plate, which he has yet to fill with the hearty meals in front of him. “There is such a thing? How come I’ve never heard of it?”

Harford blinks, then frowns as he considers Tom’s question. Why _didn’t_ Tom make use of the service in his old life? Was it because he had already found out in his Hogwarts years, and didn’t deem the service necessary when he finally found out about it? Shouldn’t Tom, as a muggle-raised magical child, have been informed of such things by his magical guardian before—

Magical guardian. Tom’s is currently Dippet, which he hopes will be him instead soon if it’s allowed. Harford’s on the other hand, in his old life as Harry Potter, had been Dumbledore.

_Oh._

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He has been avoiding thinking about Dumbledore’s negligence of his magical and political education since waking up in this new reality, but now that he realizes that the exact same thing is happening to Tom, he can’t help but recall the truth with alarming clarity. 

The wizarding world really needs to change. Not just for muggleborns, but for purebloods, as well. Magic cannot prosper when it’s shackled down by such archaic and baseless views. For the good of their society, both parties need to find a balance between their beliefs and compromise. Hopefully, Harford will be able to pave the path to make that into a reality, rather than a dream.

But before he can even aspire to help the world, he must first help Tom. Baby steps.

“I suppose Headmaster Dippet didn’t see how you would need to know, considering your background. As our headmaster, he should be your magical guardian, and as such, bears the responsibility of educating you on these matters,” Harford says carefully, glancing in Tom’s direction to see his reaction.

Tom’s face betrays nothing, as blank as a slate as it is, but even that is enough to set Harford on edge. Clearing his throat, he reaches out to lightly touch Tom’s wrist, which he now realizes is slightly trembling. Tom stares between Harford’s face and his hand; a silent question in his narrowed eyes.

“I know what you’re thinking, Tom. You’re probably angry at Dippet for looking down on you, or not taking you seriously because you’re a child,” Harford begins. Before Tom can pull his hand away, he takes a firm hold of it; once again reminded of how worryingly _thin_ Tom truly is. “But most importantly: you’re angry at yourself for not realizing sooner, or for not having read about it. You probably wish you tried harder, read more books, asked more questions. You’ve obtained a circle of… _friends_ lately, after all. It would have been simple to ask them for that information. Right?”

The only tell that Harford’s words hit home is the slight twitch in Tom’s eye. Harford wants to smile, since he is reminded that _this_ Tom is not quite the suave, collected Tom he had encountered in the Chamber of Secrets, not yet. But he stops himself, as such an expression would not be taken kindly by someone as proud as Tom. Instead he just squeezes Tom’s wrist once before letting go.

(Harford thinks Tom’s hand might have jerked, as if he wants to grab Harford’s hand and put it back on his. But that’s a silly thought, isn’t it? Tom doesn’t like being touched.)

“I honestly think our society has failed you, Tom. You, and witches and wizards like you who hadn’t been born in the wizarding world.” Harford attempts a smile for his next words. “We’re gonna change that, though. I’m going to make sure that magical children like you have access to our world early on, as well as to basic and important information like what I gave you. And I’m going to make sure you don’t have to go back to that awful orphanage ever again.”

“... Why do you care so much?”

“... I’m sorry?”

“Why do you _care_?” Tom asks. His voice is so quiet it barely carries.

Harford licks his lips and looks down at his plate. “I just don’t think it’s fair. You’re an extraordinary wizard, Tom. Even I can see that. To see all that potential go to waste because of where you came from… that’s horrible, isn’t it? And even _if_ you had not been the prodigy that you are now, you would deserve the best. You deserve to be _happy_.”

( _You deserve a chance to change_.)

Tom’s Adam’s apple bobs. “You want me to be happy.”

Harford’s does too. “Yes, I do.”

Tom’s eyes narrow as he stares at Harford’s left hand, nodding. “Because I’m your soulmate.”

Harford’s eyes crinkle as he laughs, shaking his head. “I’d want you to be happy no matter what, Tom. Even if you weren’t my soulmate.”

(Because a happy Tom is a sane Tom. And a sane Tom can never be Lord Voldemort.)

Tom’s eyes meet his, and Harford could almost see his reflection in them. Silence beats heavy like a drum between them, and it goes on for _hours_ , it seems, until Tom breaks their stare and scoffs. 

When Tom finally reaches for the roast, Harford breathes a sigh of relief. He then reaches for the stew, which is still steaming and warm as he scoops it into his mouth. He smiles and closes his eyes. 

Sometimes, small victories taste like warm, hearty rabbit stew.

* * *

Tom stares at Harford as he eats, his thoughts an endless litany of _mine, mine, mine, ALL MINE_. His left hand twitches, still warm from Harford’s grounding grip, and he yearns to return the favor—though in less innocence circumstances.

He takes a bite of roast and licks his lips, smirking to himself. Let the seduction _begin_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, I’m on a roll with the updates this month. Don’t get comfortable though; knowing my track record, my updates are gonna sizzle fast lmao
> 
> Not much dialogue or progress in this chapter, as it is mostly dedicated to some world building and plot things. Did you find Harford’s relation to the Changs a surprise? What about the demise of his new parents? Speaking of whom, I headcanon Hargrave to look like Colin Firth in Kingsman (except with curly hair), and Qiang looks like [Heart Evangelista](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/69/14/41/691441b72178ca8e9784b2974451eba9.jpg), a Filipina celebrity 😆 I love Heart, I’m sorry ;;;
> 
> I hope this chapter didn’t disappoint ;;; it was originally supposed to be part of last chapter, but I decided to split it for pacing reasons. Do let me know what you think!! I love reading your comments~ Thanks so much for taking the time to read, and I wish you all good health and happiness always!! 💗


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